‘It was kind of you to come so quickly,’ she said, in her usual quiet, self-contained manner; ‘I wish to consult you on some matters of importance.’
‘I am at your service, Madame,’ replied Calton, taking a seat, and looking keenly at the marble face before him; ‘I am glad to see you looking so well, considering what you have gone through.’
Mrs Villiers let a shadowy smile flit across her face.
‘They say the Red Indian becomes utterly indifferent to the torture of his enemies after a certain time,’ she answered, coldly; ‘I think it is the same with me. I have been deceived and disillusionized so completely that I have grown utterly callous, and nothing now can move me either to sorrow or joy.’
‘A curious answer from a curious woman,’ thought Calton, glancing at her as she sat at the writing-table in her black dress with the knots of violet ribbons upon it; ‘what queer creatures experience makes us.’
Madame Midas folded her hands loosely on the table, and looked dreamily out of the open French window, and at the trellis covered with creeping plants beyond, through which the sun was entering in pencils of golden light. Life would have been so sweet to her if she had only been content to be deceived like other people; but then she was not of that kind. Faith with her was a religion, and when religion is taken away, what remains?--nothing.
‘I am going to England,’ she said, abruptly, to Calton, rousing herself out of these painful reflections.
‘After the trial, I presume?’ observed Calton, slowly.
‘Yes,’ she answered, hesitatingly; ‘do you think they will--they will--hang the girl?’
Calton shrugged his shoulders. ‘I can’t tell you,’ he answered, with a half smile; ‘if she is found guilty--well--I think she will be imprisoned for life.’
‘Poor Kitty,’ said Madame, sadly, ‘it was an evil hour when you met Vandeloup. What do you think of him?’ she asked, suddenly.
‘He’s a scoundrel,’ returned Calton, decisively; ‘still, a clever one, with a genius for intrigue; he should have lived in the times of Borgian Rome, where his talents would have been appreciated; now we have lost the art of polite murder.’
‘Do you know,’ said Mrs Villiers, musingly, leaning back in her chair, ‘I cannot help thinking Kitty is innocent of this crime.’