“And what was the end of the affair?” “The end comes this morning at eight, when the Czar and Lord Courtenay cross swords!” In a moment Pauline’s airy manner was gone. She rose from her seat, trembling in every limb, but sank down again apparently powerless. “A duel!” she gasped. “To the death! Such is Alexander’s determination.” “A duel!” she repeated in hollow tones. “Between those two! Oh, it can’t be! You say this to frighten me. Emperors don’t fight duels.” “Alexander acted, perhaps, on the spur of the moment in giving a challenge to the finest swordsman of the day, but having given it he will keep his word.” “Lord Courtenay must be persuaded to withdraw.” “Pshaw! As well bid the sun not shine! That his opponent is the Czar lends added zest to the fight.” Pauline shuddered. “He dare not kill the Czar.” “Not purposely, perhaps, but in the hot excitement of——” “Speak the truth, _mon père_,” interrupted Pauline with an indignant flash of her eyes. “Say that you are hoping to see the Czar killed!” “That _is_ my hope.” “Why?” “Can _you_ ask why?” returned the Marquis. “To preserve the honour of Pauline de Vaucluse. And that is the reason why I, her father, am acting as Lord Courtenay’s second. Can he have a more suitable one?” “Your daughter’s honour was never at hazard,” said Pauline haughtily, rising to her full stature and facing her father. “Do you think that I would ever consent to become the Czar’s mistress? You doubt my word, I see.” Taking from her bosom a small scroll of parchment, she unfolded it, and held it before the eyes of the Marquis. “Perhaps this will convince you. Here you have the reason why I have consorted so much with Alexander.” The Marquis took the scroll in both hands, which trembled with suppressed agitation. Though there was not much writing on the scroll he had to read it several times before he could grasp its meaning. And when at last its meaning _was_ grasped, his face wore a ghastly smile, the half-believing, half-sceptical smile of the pauper, when suddenly told that he is heir to stores of gold. “You see what a traitress I have been to your diplomatic policy? But you forgive me, _mon père_; is it not so? You give up Bonaparte from this day henceforth. The Bourbons must be your friends now as they once were.” “Can this be true?” murmured the Marquis hoarsely, lifting his eyes from the document to his daughter’s face. “There is the signature. You have seen it many a time, and should know whether it is genuine.” Bewildered, the Marquis sank upon a sofa. A new feeling stole over him as he contemplated his beautiful daughter—a feeling of admiration bordering upon awe. “Then,” said he, “who on earth is the lady whom Lord Courtenay met at the masquerade?” “Did you say that Lord Courtenay has been here?” “Yes.” “In this room?” “Nowhere else.” “And didn’t notice that?” said Pauline, pointing to a lady’s portrait hanging upon the wall.