the prince sat drumming upon the table with his long white fingers. he had waved the marquis and vanringham aside. "a passing weakness,—i am not adamant," he had said, half-peevishly.
"then i prescribe another glass of this really excellent wine," laughed little louis de soyecourt. at heart he was not merry, and his own unreasoning nervousness irritated him, for it seemed to the marquis, quite irrationally, that the atmosphere of the cheery room was, without forerunnership, become tense and expectant, and was now quiet with much the hush which precedes the bursting of a thunder-storm. and accordingly he laughed.
"i prescribe another glass, monsieur," said he. "eh, that is the true panacea for faintness—for every ill. come, we will drink to the most beautiful woman in poictesme—nay, i am too modest,—to the most beautiful woman in france, in europe, in the whole universe! feriam sidera, my father! and confound all mealy-mouthed reticence, for you have both seen her. confess, am i not a lucky man? come, vanringham, too, shall drink. no glasses? take nelchen's, then. come, you fortunate rascal, you shall drink to the bride from the bride's half-emptied glass. to the most beautiful woman—why, what the devil—?"
vanringham had blurted out an odd, unhuman sound. his extended hand shook and jerked, as if in irresolution, and presently struck the proffered glass from de soyecourt's grasp. you heard the tiny crash, very audible in the stillness, and afterward the irregular drumming of the old prince's finger-tips. he had not raised his head, had not moved.
louis de soyecourt came to him, without speaking, and placed one hand under his father's chin, and lifted the prince's countenance, like a dead weight, toward his own. thus the two men regarded each the other. their silence was rather horrible.
"it was not in vain that i dabbled with chemistry all these years," said the guttural voice of the prince de gâtinais, "yes, the child is dead by this. let us recognize the fact we are de soyecourts, you and i."
but louis de soyecourt had flung aside the passive, wrinkled face, and then, with a straining gesture, wiped the fingers that had touched it upon the sleeve of his left arm. he turned to the stairway. his hand grasped the newelpost and gripped it so firmly that he seemed less to walk than by one despairing effort to lift an inert body to the first step. he ascended slowly, with a queer shamble, and disappeared into nelchen's room.
