"And that haughty, overbearing Pembroke. Does he still cherish that romantic sentiment for you, I wonder."
Madame Volkonsky blushed faintly. She was not as devoid of delicacy as her husband.
"If he does," continued Volkonsky, meditatively, "he might be induced—if you should appeal to him—"
"Appeal to him for what?" inquired Madame Volkonsky, rising and turning paler. The contempt in her tone angered Volkonsky.
"Not to ruin us. That man is now in the Congress. He has to do with foreign affairs. He hates me, and, by God, I hate him. He knows things that may cause you to give up this establishment—that may send us back across the water under unpleasant circumstances. You know about the dispute at cards, and other things—you have not failed to remind me of them,—and if Pembroke is disposed he can use this with frightful effect now."
Madame Volkonsky remained perfectly silent. She was stunned by the information Volkonsky gave her—but Volkonsky was quite oblivious of her feelings. He was gnawing his yellow mustache.
"You might see him," he said. "You might appeal to him—throw yourself on his mercy—"
"What a wretch you are," suddenly burst out Madame Volkonsky in English. They had talked in French all this time, which she spoke apparently
