The Emperor had decided to have done with the whole affair—to use his own pleasant words, repeated by Mocquard—to "throw the "Chronicle" out of the window." As for the "political director," he could go to the devil (still quoting), or to the United States, just as he felt inclined.
"You refuse, then, to ask the Emperor for this money?" said the wife.
"Desolé!" cried Mocquard, seeking a pretext, "his Majesty has cabinet of ministers to-day at twelve o'clock; it is almost that now, and I dare not disturb him."
"Very well," said she. "I will wait here until the Emperor passes, and then I shall myself ask him."
So saying she sat down, and picking up a newspaper (which happened to be the hated Independance Belge), she began, coolly and leisurely, to all appearance, to read.
For perhaps a quarter of an hour there was silence. The old man, angry, impatient, kept glancing — nevertheless, with not unkind eyes—at the young woman who sat there braving him—the great him—in his own cabinet. For her, with the newspaper within a hand's length of her eyes, she saw not a letter of the type before her; but heard, with fearful distinctness, every tick of the clock which told her the meridian was waxing apace. In those moments of torture, she reviewed, step by step, the whole history of this seeming good-fortune—the intimacy with the Emperor—and remembered, with that certain satisfaction which always follows the knowledge of a just pre-judgment, that from the very first her instincts had told her that all this would come to no good. Given such a curious and exceptional opportunity, another man might have made himself a power in this Empire; but Peyton was a man of no power, mental, moral or physical. The opportunity had crushed, instead of elevating him—and all had gone ill.
Mocquard seemed to feel that he was not now dealing with Peyton; for, presently, with a hasty and quite unnecessary injunction of "Well, wait a minute," he arose and passed into the Emperor's cabinet.
When he returned he bore in his hands the instrument of Peyton's present salvation—a check for the full amount—three thousand pounds!
The tears came now; the overstrained nerves relaxed, and all the poor woman's firmness disappeared. Poor old Mocquard! He was not so cruel after all! He actually shed tears of sympathy when he saw Mrs. Peyton break down so completely.
Mrs. Peyton expressed her thanks—her gratitude—briefly, but sincerely, for there was now no time to be lost. It lacked ten minutes to the fatal hour—twelve o'clock.
