"Thank you," said Sabaroff.

He cut himself a slice of lemon, helped himself to rum, and began to sip his tea.

There was an unbroken silence for a couple of minutes.

"You are not offended with me?" he resumed. "Ah, forgive me if I have called you by your beautiful first name, your sweet name of Dora, it is the only one I ever give you in my thoughts. Here is a pansy," he said, opening his pocket-book, "a flower that you dropped at Monte Carlo.

There is no Mrs. Grantham for me; there is Dora, the name I cannot forget."

"This man really loved me, then," said Dora to herself, "and loves me still perhaps." The thought displeased her, but it was not insulting.

She thought of the pansies which had come regularly, year after year, on the anniversary of her marriage. Then, if he loved her still, she had everything to fear in this solitary tete-a-tete. She resolved to be more than ever on her guard.

"But it is precisely my other name, General, that I would have you remember always," she said, with a calm smile.

"If I thought of that one, I should not be here now; I should never come to this house," said Sabaroff. "I should not be now preparing to sign this paper, which is to enrich still further the man to whom you gave yourself, the man who already possesses the only thing I ever really craved. Shall I sign? Why should I?" said he, drawing from his pocket an envelope containing a blank contract. "What will be my thanks? What is to be my reward?"

"Oh, General," said Dora, nervous but still smiling, "you are too good a patriot to need any incentive but the love of your country."

"No, Mrs. Grantham, that is not enough. I love my country, but I do not love your husband. For you alone I sign. To you I turn for my reward.

Ah, let me hear from those lovely lips that you have only kind, pitying thoughts for the man who still worships you and loves you as you are worthy to be loved."

Sabaroff's eyes were lit with a strange fire, and threw burning glances upon Dora. She began to tremble. This man frightened her.

"Of course, General, I am grateful, I" ... She felt incapable of finishing the phrase. "Must I go through with this?" she thought. "Oh that I could get rid of this man!"

Sabaroff did not take his eyes off her face. He was striving to read her inmost thoughts.

"I have no resentment," she continued; "I have long ago forgotten what pa.s.sed between us, and if you will do the same, here is my hand."

Sabaroff unfolded the paper which he had taken from the envelope, placed it on the table and signed it. Dora was still holding out her hand to him. Sabaroff seized it and drew her close to him.

"Dora," he exclaimed, "my Dora!"

"You forget, once more you forget," she said, freeing herself. "If my husband were here" ...

"If your husband were here!" cried Sabaroff, with a sneer. "Once for all, is it possible that you do not see the role that your husband is playing? Are you indeed so blind? Tell me, does a man encourage a former lover of his wife about his house constantly, a lover who was on the point of becoming her _fiance_, and who perhaps loves her still? Does he miss the train when he knows that his wife will be alone with that man for a whole evening? No, my dear Mrs. Grantham, a man misses everything you like to name, but he does not miss such a train as that. Ah, let us have no more of these pretences. You know perfectly well what he is, that husband of yours who missed his train. You know that you have no love left for him, that you only feel the most profound contempt for that man who, to put a fortune in his purse, does not hesitate to play the _mari complaisant_."

"No, it's impossible, it is not true," cried Dora, suffocating with indignation; "spare me your suppositions."

"You shall not make me believe that you do not despise him. I have watched you both carefully from the first day that I have visited your house. Do not deceive me, do not attempt to deceive yourself. You do not love your husband. I have seen how your n.o.ble heart has shrunk from contact with so sordid a nature, as his has proved to be in the past few months. He may have loved you once in his cool, jellyfish fashion; perhaps you have loved him yourself, but since his new craze for wealth has ousted you from his consideration, except when you are useful to him as a bait, you have hated him--ah, worse than that, you have despised him. You know that he is not worthy of you, who have the soul as well as the body of an angel. No, you are not blind; you are not a child, to sit down tamely under his treatment of you. Be a woman, take a woman's revenge. Only give me a t.i.the of the love he has held so lightly and I will be your slave, your adoring slave to my dying day. Dora, I love you," he cried as he advanced towards her.

"I can listen to no more of this. You have tried my patience too far already. I thank you, in my husband's name, General, for having signed this paper; but I don't feel well,--have pity on me. You have before you a woman full of grat.i.tude for what you have done; it would not be generous to take advantage of it to press your company upon me in my present state. Leave me now, please."

"Leave you! leave you! Ah, ah! And this is my reward? Now that you have obtained all you want, you dismiss me. Dora, take care. You are too intelligent, too much of a woman, not to see that my love for you has come back to me redoubled, that it blinds me, makes me mad, and that your resistance only adds fuel to the fire."

"Go, I beseech you, at once," exclaimed Dora, now thoroughly alarmed; "go, I command you. Nothing will force me to listen to you any longer--I tell you I am suffering tortures; you say that you love me, then, spare me and go."

"So, then," said he reproachfully, "you let me see you, let me come here almost day after day until I cannot live away from you, and then, when you have done your despicable husband's work, you dismiss me with a _many thanks, good-bye_. No, Dora," he added, raising his voice, "I will not be dismissed so. Look at me well," he said, seizing her arm; "do I look like a man who can be so lightly played with?"

"Let me go; you hurt me," cried Dora, distracted with indignation; "how dare you treat me so?"

"How dare I?" said Sabaroff. "You wonder how I dare? Ah, wonder rather that I kept silent so long with your beautiful face before me, your voice and eyes bewitching me, your lips so near, all your loveliness making mad riot in my pulses! What do you think I am made of? Does one take a starving wretch to see a banquet spread, and, when he has just begun to eat, then cast him out, because he dares to say he is hungry still? Does one offer rich wine to a weary traveller, and, when he has taken but one sip from the cup, dash it from his lips and bid him begone? In your presence, Dora, I am craving for your love."

"Philip, where are you?" cried the poor woman wildly, and feeling more dead than alive.

She made towards the door, but Sabaroff intercepted her pa.s.sage.

"Dora," said he, "why keep up this farce any longer? Be honest. Unmask yourself, for I am convinced you are wearing a mask. Why do you call your husband? You know that he is not here, and you must know only too well why he is not here. Your husband has kept away to-night, that you may be alone with me. You cannot but despise him, a creature who, when he had won it, knew not how to value the prize I crave in vain. And now that I have found you suffering tortures at his callousness, you will not let me tell you how I love you--pa.s.sionately, madly! Ah, since it is he who throws you into my arms, come and make your home there; you shall never repent the step--I swear it!"

"Ah, enough, enough, spare me any more indignities," cried Dora, with head proudly uplifted. "General Sabaroff! leave, leave this house instantly."

So saying, she made a movement towards the bell.

"Dora!" cried Sabaroff, seizing her in his strong arms.

She struggled, and finished by freeing herself from his grasp.

"Go this moment, I tell you. You have treated me as you would not dare treat a servant-girl in a low lodging-house, you have treated me as if you took me for a Mimi Latouche--you are a coward!"

Dora was nearly at the end of her strength. She was wild, at bay, without power to cry for help. A coquette would have known how to defend herself. Knowing to what she exposes herself, the coquette always prepares a line of retreat before engaging in the battle; but a woman as pure as Dora is almost defenceless in the presence of a man who has burned his ships and who intends to stop at nothing: she has no weapons for such a contest. Dora was paralysed with fright and indignation. She made a last and supreme effort to reach the bell; but Sabaroff stopped her, and seizing her more firmly than he had done before, he cried--

"My reward! I claim my reward for so much patience!"

She was in his arms, panting, almost unconscious. He strained her to his heart, and kissed her pa.s.sionately on the eyes, on the lips again and again. Exhausted by the struggle, Dora yet made a supreme effort, and succeeded in once more freeing herself from Sabaroff's hold; but he caught her by the arm, which he kissed devouringly. Dora sank fainting on the sofa.

At this moment the door opened, and Gabrielle, with agony depicted on her face, rushed into the room. She had come to fetch her sister, to take her to Eva's bedside, for the child had grown rapidly worse. Seeing Sabaroff on his knees gazing at Dora, she drew back, stifling a cry, and, wringing her hands in despair, she disappeared.

Sabaroff heard the cry, but did not move. After a moment, turning round and seeing no one, he rang the bell, hurriedly impressed a further kiss on the forehead of the unconscious woman, and left without waiting for the arrival of a servant.

When the servant entered, Dora had regained consciousness.

"Did you ring, ma'am?"

"No," she said; "what is it?"

She looked around her, pa.s.sing her hand over her eyes and forehead. She realised that she was alone. Her eyes were haggard. She looked wild, half mad.

"Where is he?" she said; "gone?"

Then she fixed her eyes on the servant, who seemed to have a message to deliver.

"Well, what is it?" she repeated.

"Miss Gabrielle," replied the man, "told me to say that she had sent for the doctor, and that he is now with Miss Eva. Will you, please, go up at once, ma'am?"

Dora gazed fixedly at the man. She had not heard, or, rather, she had not taken in a single word of the servant's message. She signed to him to go, and he left.

Taking her head in both hands, she tried to remember what had been happening.