The Alberian Ambassador, Prince d'Alchingen, considered himself a diplomatist of the Metternich school. He had imagination, sentimentality, and humour: he preferred to attack the strength rather than the weaknesses of mankind, and in all his schemes he counted inconsistency among the passions, and panic among the virtues. He still hoped that Orange might be tempted by the prospect of immediate happiness to press for the nullity of the Parflete marriage. Parflete himself was indulging in the most extravagant demonstrations of remorse. He behaved, as Disraeli said, more like a cunning woman than an able man, and he was an agent of the kind most dangerous to his employers—irregularly scrupulous, fond of boasting of his acquaintance with princes and ministers, so vain that he would rather have had notoriety without glory, than glory without notoriety. He had found the means of ingratiating himself with many persons of high rank, and he knew how to avail himself, with each, of his influence with the others. Never did an intrigue require more urgently a sort of conduct quite out of the common routine. The Prince, therefore, was much perturbed in mind, and cast about him for a trustworthy associate. By an associate he meant some one on whom he could test the quality of his deceit—in other words, he liked to try his sword on gossamer and granite before he struck out at commoner materials. Among his friendships, he prosecuted none with such zeal as that with the Lady Sara de Treverell. As the member of a great Russian house, she was especially attractive to Alberian speculation, but her beauty and cleverness no doubt assisted the Ambassador's determination to make himself agreeable. The two constantly exchanged letters, and, as the Princess d'Alchingen was an invalid who devoted her hours to spiritual reading, she gladly permitted Lady Sara's influence, realising—with the priceless knowledge of a spirit made reasonable through pain—that the girl was romantic and the Prince incurably old. His flaxen wig heightened the tone of a complexion much ravaged by gout and its antidotes. His nebulous eyes with twitching lids were not improved by the gold-rimmed glasses which magnified their insignificance. He possessed a striking nose and chin, but, as these features were more characteristic than delightful, they offered his wife no occasions for serious anxiety. Whenever His Excellency required feminine advice, it was considered quite en rÈgle that Lady Sara should be consulted. The Princess herself drove him to St. James's Square on the afternoon following Mr. Disraeli's call. She sent milles tendresses to her chÉrie, and bitterly regretted that she was not well enough to leave the carriage. The Prince kissed her hand, bowed superbly, stood bareheaded in a draught till the brougham drove away (in these matters he had no equal), and, having warned Sara of his intended visit by a special messenger, he had the pleasure of finding the young lady alone. Following her custom, she was appropriately dressed for the occasion in prune-coloured velvet, which suggested dignity, and very beautiful antique Spanish lace, which symbolized the long endurance of things apparently too delicate, subtle, and trifling for the assaults of time. The Prince kissed both of her white hands, and lamented the obstacles which had kept them apart for so many insupportable weeks. He had lived on her letters. They had been, however, few and short.

“What is troubling you, sir?” asked Sara, “you look pale.”

“For once in my life I wish to do a foolish thing—pour encourager les autres,” was his reply. “I intend to meddle with a love-affair.”

“Whose love-affair?”

“I will tell you presently. I never venture upon any work trusting alone to my hopes. I am not of those who discover rifts in their harness only on the morning of the battle! I prepare for all contingencies. First, then, let me put you through a little catechism. Do men ever believe evil reports about the women they love?”

“The posse non peccare is not the non posse peccare,” said Sara quickly.

“Do you mean that they can believe the evil, but, as a rule, they won't?” returned the Prince.

“You translate freely, but you have caught the spirit!”

“Very well. I come to my second question. Is a man better off with a dangerous woman whom he adores than with a good woman who adores him?”

“All men who desire love, deserve it,” said Sara. “The means to this are always, in a manner, certainties, the end is always problematical. But those who want love could never be satisfied with mere welfare—never.”

“You have a right to direct my opinion,” he exclaimed; “where else do I hear such sound good sense? The usual women one meets in our circle are old, ugly, and proud—incapable of conversation with persons of intelligence. My wife,” he added smoothly, “makes this complaint about her lady friends. It is very dull and very sad for her, although she is a saint.”

No conversation or letter was ever exchanged between Sara and the Prince without some emphatic tribute to the sanctity, prudence, and charm of the Princess.

“The dear Princess!” murmured Sara.

“And now,” said His Excellency, drawing his chair an inch nearer, “I must be serious. You have guessed, of course, that I am thinking about Robert Orange and Mrs. Parflete. I stayed at Brookes's till after twelve last night in hopes of seeing Orange. I was discussing him with Lord Reckage.”

“What did Reckage say?”

“Reckage doesn't mind raising a blister, but he won't often tell one what he thinks.”

Sara shivered a little and compressed her lips.

“Reckage is fond of Orange,” she said, “yet there is a certain jealousy.... Formerly, Orange had need of Reckage, and depended on him; now Reckage needs him and depends on Orange. Could he but know it, Orange is the one creature who could pull him through his difficulties with the Bond of Association. A man who has no personal ambition, who desires nothing that any one can give, who fears nothing that any one can do, who lives securely in the presence of God, is a power we must not under-rate.”

She spoke with enthusiasm—the enthusiasm which women seldom, if ever, display for principle on its bare merits. By the deepening colour in her eyes and sudden clearness in her cheeks, the Ambassador felt that he had reached a point where the emotions would have to be considered, even though they might not be counted on.

“I have not time to tell you all the nonsense Reckage said,” he answered. “So far as my own judgment can serve for a guide, I believe that he would like to see Orange under the care and discipline of St. Ignatius.”

“He wishes him to become a Jesuit priest? How selfish!”

“Such is my impression. He wants so competent a colleague removed from the political sphere. If his words and actions are of a piece, he will certainly work hard to attain this object. He is saying everywhere, ‘Orange is a born ecclesiastic. Orange is a mystic. Orange is under the influence of Newman. Orange begins to see that marriage is not for him.’ Such remarks don't help outside the Church. Really, competition renders the nicest people detestable.”

Lady Sara could not conceal her agitation. But she baffled her companion a little by saying—

“I suppose you want Orange to marry your inopportune Archduchess?”

“The lady in question is certainly inopportune. I have never called her an Archduchess. I leave such audacities to her enemies! But tell me what you think of Mrs. Parflete?”

“I have never seen her. PensÉe Fitz Rewes insists that she is beautiful, cold, determined, and uncommon.”

“Generally, there is nothing so fatal to a woman's success in the world as an early connection with a scoundrel. I have odd accounts of Mrs. Parflete from Madrid—the Marquis of Castrillon and an upstart called Bodava fought a duel about her in Baron Zeuill's gymnasium. A man called William Caffle, who attended to their wounds, has given me fullest particulars of the affair. I don't wish to injure the lady, but on account of eventualities which might arise, I am obliged to look a little about me.”

“I understand,” said Sara.

“The great point is not to let Parflete take the lead in the settlement. His present course of action isn't quite decent or consistent. Will Orange do nothing? It is wise to make peace whilst there is some faint appearance of choice left on the subject, so there is no time to be wasted.”

“What ought Orange to do?”

“Reckage declares that he will not appeal to Rome. There he is well-advised. But as he has already compromised Mrs. Parflete, surely his present scruples are entirely new and unlooked for? We must both despise him, if he should abandon her now.”

“He has never compromised her,” said Sara indignantly. “He has even been ridiculed for his honour. I had no idea, Excellence, that you were so wicked!”

“How else could I know all the news twenty-four hours before the rest of the world? This, however, is no laughing matter. Parflete may ask his wife to return to him. It may suit her purpose to agree.”

“What! A woman who loves, or who has loved—Robert Orange? A few things in human nature are still impossible.”

Prince d'Alchingen shrugged his shoulders, and continued—

“Parflete has a good back-stairs knowledge of Alberian politics. We never deny this, but we always add that he was dismissed, in disgrace, from the Imperial Household.”

“Is there much use in denying the fact that he married the Archduke's daughter?”

“We meet the case by saying that the Archduke in his youth may not have been exempt from manly follies. And Duboc was irresistible—she drove one mad!”

“Then why all this fuss?”

“To avoid more fuss—on a large scale.”

“But I have always heard that Mrs. Parflete has no intention of giving trouble. They say she is an angel.”

“You will find that she would far rather be an Archduchess! Orange may discover that his Beatrice is nearly related to Rahab!”

“Oh, I cannot think you are right.”

“Then you should hear Zeuill and General Prim on the subject. The Marquis of Castrillon is in London. Our friend Parflete will soon be labouring with copious materials for a divorce.”

“How can you assume such horrors?” said Sara.

“The imagination,” said His Excellency, “is always more struck by likelihoods than the reason convinced by the examination of facts! My dear friend, let us survey the position. Orange does not seem to have the most distant idea of making Mrs. Parflete his—his belle amie. Well and good. But ought he, at his age, so handsome, so brilliant, so much a man, to renounce all other women for the sake of a little adventuress? Can nothing be done? If he could have some convincing proof of her treachery, would he not turn to others more beautiful, more worthy——“

“To Lady Fitz Rewes,” said Sara quickly.

“If you like,” replied the Prince, in his gentlest voice.

For a second or two each of them looked away. Sara glanced toward her canaries in their cage. Prince d'Alchingen leant forward to inhale the perfume of some violets in a vase near him.

“Delicious!” he murmured, “delicious!”

“Mr. Disraeli,” said Sara, still gazing at the birds, “has always wished for the marriage with Lady Fitz Rewes. Yet what can we do? I cannot see the end of it.”

“The heroic are plotted against by evil spirits, comforted by good ones, but in no way constrained,” observed the Ambassador; “let us then support Mr. Orange, and wait for his own decision. I doubt whether we could drive him to Lady Fitz Rewes.”

“To whom else?” asked Sara, fastening some flowers in her belt. They were white camellias sent that morning from the infatuated, still hopeful Duke of Marshire. “To whom else—if not PensÉe?”

“I dare not answer such questions yet. Have patience and you shall see what you shall see. Much will hinge on the events of the next few days.”

“I will not believe,” she insisted, “that Robert Orange has been deceived by that woman.”

“You may change your opinion. Come to Hadley Lodge next Saturday—I ask no more.”

“Really, sir,” said Sara, with a mocking smile, “you frighten me. Am I at last to fly through an intrigue on the wings of a conspiracy?”

The Prince smiled also, but he saw that the lady had risen to the occasion and would not prove false to her Asiatic blood.

“Mrs. Parflete and Castrillon are cut out for each other,” said he, “but Orange has no business in that galÈre. He is reserved for a greater fate.”

“What do you mean?” said Sara.

“All now depends on you.”

“On me?”

“Plainly. Reckage wishes Orange to get out of his way and become a Religious. Can this be permitted?”

“It would be outrageous. It would be a crime.”

“Ah, worse than that. It might prove a success. We don't want any more strong men in the Church just now.”

Sara agreed. She, too, was opposed to the Church. And she was glad of the excuse this thought offered for the pains she would take to save Orange from the Vatican grasp.

“Then we are allies,” said His Excellency. “You will help me.”

“Gladly, and what is more, as a duty. But how?”

“Keep the two men apart, and treat both of them—both—with kindness.”

His Excellency then rose, kissed her hands once more, and took his departure. Sara, when the door was closed, paced the floor with swift and desperate steps, as though she were encircled by thoughts which, linked together, danced round her way so that whether she retreated or advanced, swayed to the right or to the left, they held her fast.