"Yes," said she at length.
"Such is my love for you," he said, his quick instinct telling him
that with Mathilde few words were best.
He only spoke the thoughts of his age; for ambition was the ruling
passion in men's hearts at this time. All who served the Great
Adventurer gave it the first place in their consideration, and de
Casimir only aped his betters. Though oddly enough the only two of
all the great leaders who were to emerge still greater from the
coming war--Ney and Eugene--thought otherwise on these matters.
"I mean to be great and rich, Mademoiselle," he added after a pause.
"I have risked my life for that purpose half a dozen times."
Mathilde stood looking across the room towards the window. He could
only see her profile and the straight line of her lips. She too was
the product of a generation in which men rose to dazzling heights
without the aid of women.
"I should not have troubled you with these details, Mademoiselle,"
he said, watching her. His instinct was very keen, for not one
woman in a thousand, even in those days, would have admitted that
love was a detail. "I should not have mentioned it--had you not
given me your views--so strangely in harmony with my own."
Whatever his nationality, his voice was that of a Pole--rich,
musical, and expressive. He could have made, one would have
thought, a very different sort of love had he wished, or had he been
sincere. But he was an opportunist.
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