“And for me, for my happiness, you would do this?  I cannot doubt you any longer, if ever I did.  Enough, Gratian, I will go to the world’s end with you!”

CHAPTER XI.

A SPRAT AND THE WHALE.

A few moments were enough for the two to enter the chateau again, where their absence had begun to arouse curiosity, though the guests were too well bred to make general remarks.  With the cue that these “slow,” tame gatherings were but the cloak to more important conclaves, Cesarine studied them as never before.  It was clear.  Here and there were groups which did not waste a word on the accent of Mademoiselle Delaporte, the early history of Aimee Derclee, or the latest episode in the stage and boudoir history of “the Beauty who is also the Stupid Beast.”  For a certainty, conspiracy went on here at the gates of the capital; perhaps from the pretty belvedere, where the large telescope was mounted for lovers to see Venus, the sons of Mars ascertained where the batteries of siege guns should be planted to shell Parisian palaces and forts.

Two of a trade never agree, says the wisdom of our ancestors, and from that time Cesarine detested Gratian.  If he so easily betrayed his friends, countrymen and employers for her, what might he not do as regards her when she was older and her bloom vanished?  Better not place herself under his thumb and be cast off, in some remote, barbarous region, when the caprice had worn out.  But the money!  What was this political league and its aims to her?  For her limited education, that of a refined and expensive toy, she was ignorant of the laws and regulations governing even herself, and these laws were too subtly interwoven and inexorable for man alone to have formed them.  She did not suspect the great reasons of the State in setting them in motion to accomplish collective ends and destinies, whether they wrought good or evil to individuals.  Enough that they were necessary for a dynasty or a class; but in all cases, the rulers knew why they were made.

Little by little, but without loss of time, her perspicacity penetrated the disguises, although not to the motives that impelled the plotters.  She centered her thoughts on the old, white-locked pianist, who silently listened to all the parties and was tolerated even when the piano was closed; he was taciturn, always blandly smiling and bent in a servile bow.  Nevertheless, this was the principal of the conspirators and even the viscount-baron treated him with some deference as representing a formidable power.

One morning, Cesarine came over to the marchioness’s and took advantage of the drawing-room being open to be aired, to open the piano and practice an aria which she had promised at the next soiree.  There was nothing but praise for her singing, and old, retired tenors and obese soprani had assured her that she had but to have one hearing in the Opera to be placed among the stars.  The aged pianist had often listened to her vocalism with enraptured gaze, and she believed he, too, was her slave.