Chapter VII.
The Golden Secret Is Told, and the Golden Bowl Is Broken.
The new tiger, or, as he is called in the kitchen, the "tempory tiger," takes his place, on the morning after Lady Londersdon's Wednesday, behind the Count de Marolles' cab, as that gentleman drives into the City.
There is little augury to be drawn from the pale smooth face of Raymond de Marolles, though Signor Mosquetti's revelation has made his position rather a critical one. Till now he has ruled Valerie with a high hand; and though never conquering the indomitable spirit of the proud Spanish woman, he has at least forced that spirit to do the will of his. But now, now that she knows the trick put upon her—now that she knows that the man she so deeply adored did not betray her, but died the victim of another's treachery—that the blood in which she has steeped her soul was the blood of the innocent,—what if now, in her desperation and despair, she dares all, and reveals all; what then?
"Why, then," says Raymond de Marolles, cutting his horse over the ears with a delicate touch of the whip, which stings home, though, for all its delicacy; "why then, never shall it be said that Raymond Marolles found himself in a dilemma, without finding within himself the power to extricate himself. We are not conquered yet, and we have seen a good deal of life in thirty years—and not a little danger. Play your best card, Valerie; I've a trump in my own hand to play when the time comes. Till then, keep dark. I tell you, my good woman, I have hothouses of my own, and don't want your Covent-Garden exotics at twopence a bunch!"
This last sentence is addressed to a woman, who pleads earnestly for the purchase of a wretched bunch of violets, which she holds up to tempt the man of fashion as she runs by the wheels of his cab, driving very slowly through the Strand.
"Fresh violets, sir. Do, sir, please. Only twopence, just twopence, sir, for the love of charity. I've a poor old woman at home, not related to me, sir, but I keep her. She's dying—starving, sir, and dying of old age."
"Bah! I tell you, my good woman, I'm not Lawrence Sterne on a sentimental journey, but a practical man of business. I don't give macaroons to donkeys, or save mythic old women from starvation. You'd better keep out of the way of the wheels—they'll be over your feet presently, and if you suffer from corns they may probably hurt you," says the philanthropic banker, in his politest tones.
"Stop, stop!" suddenly exclaims the woman, with an energy that almost startles even Raymond. "It's you, is it—Jim?
