She did not, however, allow herself to dwell on
the instinctive impulse which had thrown her on the King's breast,
ready to receive her own death-blow rather than that he should die; she
preferred to elude that question, and to consider her action solely
from the standpoint of those Socialistic theories with which she was
indissolubly associated.
"Had I not frustrated the attempt, the crime would have been set down
to us and our Brotherhood," she said to herself, "Sergius--or Paul
Zouche--or I myself--or even Pasquin--yes, even he!--might, and
doubtless would, have been accused of instigating it. As it is, I think
I have saved the situation." She rose and walked slowly up and down the
room. "I wonder who is behind the wretched boy concerned in this
business? He is too young to have determined on such a deed himself,--
unless he is mad;--he must be a tool in the hands of others."
Here spying her long black cloak hanging across a chair, she took it up
and threw it round her,--her face was reflected back upon her from a
mirror set in the wall, round which a cluster of ivory cupids
clambered,--and she looked critically at her white drawn features, and
the disordered masses of her hair. Loosening these abundant locks, she
shook them down and gathered them into her one uncrippled hand,
preparatory to twisting them into the usual knot at the back of her
head, the while she looked at the little sculptured _amorini_ set
round the mirror, with a compassionate smile.
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