Chapter 13: The Intervention of Adrian

For Iría to attempt to hide a change of thought from the keen-eyed and sophisticated Adrian with his clairvoyant faculty of penetration was as futile as for a flower to resolve to shut from the sun the drop of dew in its golden heart. A week after her morning drive with Stanief, when Iría was passing one of her usual hours with the Emperor, he coolly put his finger on her secret.

“You are not yourself, cousine,” he observed. “What has Feodor been telling you of me?”

“Oh!” Iría exclaimed in distress, regarding her youthful sovereign with wide, astonished eyes.

Adrian smiled with his fine malice.

“Come, confess. Or shall I guess? I am ungrateful, unappreciative, and swayed by Dalmorov; not so? Moreover I am dangerous, and making my Regent extremely uncomfortable.”

“Oh, no, sire. He bade me never blame you, indeed. He said nothing like that,” denied madame impetuously, then stopped short.

“Then what did he tell you?”

“But I was not to repeat,” she pleaded.

This time Adrian laughed outright and leaned forward to capture one of the lily-leaf hands and lift it to his lips. They were seated in the great octagonal library, which of all the palace was the Emperor’s favorite room, Iría employed with a bit of the intricate embroidery always brought at his especial request. He was fond of watching her while her attention was fixed on the pretty task; and until a few months before Stanief had not infrequently made a third at the gracious pretense of domesticity. To-day, at the opposite side of the apartment and out of hearing, Allard chatted with two of Iría’s ladies.

“You have not repeated, cousine,” the inquisitor assured her. “I myself guessed. And since I appear to have guessed worse than the truth, you had better correct me. I will not tell Feodor.”

She looked up at him then, flushing all over.

“If I tell you, sire,” she retorted with pride, “I shall say so to monseigneur as soon as I see him. Must I speak?”

“I think you had better, chère cousine.”

She laid the glowing tissue in her lap and met the raillery of his glance quite seriously.

“Then I will try to remember, sire, because the truth is always much the best to know. And I am certain you would not ask me to hurt him. He asked me if I would be ready to go with him when the regency ended and you sent him from court. He said that you had never trusted him, and could not forgive him for the government forced upon him. That was all, indeed. Except that he did say you thought highly of Baron Dalmorov; and, and, a few words just for me.”