For there was something in his face just now which was strange to her.
"Helene," he said quietly, "I suppose that you, who knew nothing of
me till you left school, have looked upon me always as a selfish,
passionless creature--a weaver of plots, perhaps sometimes a
dreamer of dreams, but a person wholly self-centred, always
self-engrossed?"
She shook her head.
"Not selfish!" she objected. "No, I never thought that. It is
the wrong word."
"At least," he said, "you will be surprised to hear that I have
loved one woman all my life."
She looked at him half doubtfully.
"Yes," she said, "I am surprised to hear that."
"I will surprise you still more. I was married to her in America
within a month of my arrival there. We have lived together ever
since. And I have been very happy. I speak, of course, of Lucille!"
"It is amazing," she murmured. "You must tell me all about it."
"Not all," he answered sadly. "Only this. I met her first at
Vienna when I was thirty-five, and she was eighteen. I treated her
shamefully. Marriage seemed to me, with all my dreams of great
achievements, an act of madness. I believed in myself and my career.
I believed that it was my destiny to restore the monarchy to our
beloved country. And I wanted to be free. I think that I saw
myself a second Napoleon.
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