not only the invention of a jealous woman?
"Listen; this is not yet all. I have more rights than this. I have given up everything for him." The Princess sat up on the sofa now, and the hand which held the feather-fan trembled. "I have waited patiently for years for him. I have allowed my name to be talked of lightly for his sake. I have made my child fatherless. I have sacrificed" – there was a momentary pause, which seemed to promise a climax – "I have sacrificed my journey to Paris this year – and all for him."
There was a touch of absurdity, after all, in the midst of the pathos. But to a Roumanian there was nothing ludicrous about it. To sacrifice a Parisian journey is to sacrifice something sacred, something inestimably precious; for to Roumanian women the word "Paris" is as sweet as the word "paradise" – perhaps, if the truth were known, sweeter.
"I have made my child fatherless;" – those were the words which struck Gretchen's ear. She heard no others, and she stared with horror at the Princess, and from the Princess to the jewelled sheath on the table.
"What?" she stammered, trembling; "you have – you have" – she could not finish her own extravagant thought. She recovered herself, and asked, "When did your husband die?"
A slow stare was the answer.
"My husband die? He is not dead."
"Not dead?" Gretchen got to her feet shivering. "Princess Tryphosa, are you not a widow?"
"He is not dead, he is alive. He lives in Bucharest. We are separated; but I see him often. We are very good friends."
Gretchen stood aghast, feeling as if she had been suddenly plunged into ice-cold water, which had cut her breath short for a moment. Was it her sense of hearing or her sense of understanding which was at fault? Did she hear aright? Of course she heard aright; it was only her ignorance which was to blame. She had not mastered the A B C of the strange Roumanian nation. Tryphosa's words were a shock to her own stern principles; but, in point of fact, the Princess was rather behindhand in this matter. Most Roumanian women of her age have two husbands alive at a time; and any lady who contents herself with conjugal affection is looked upon as eccentric, unfashionable, not to say dowdy. It is nothing at all unusual in a Bucharest salon to see a lady enter on the arm of her third husband, smilingly return the courteous bows of her two first lords, and in the course of the evening perhaps begin to throw languishing glances towards the one destined to become her fourth.
Tryphosa, seeing Gretchen's too evident distress, good-naturedly explained –
"I married very young; not because I wanted, but because they all wanted it, and really it was not worth while fighting about it. I could have got separated any day I liked, for in our country it is made easy for us women; but I should not have taken the trouble, only – I met István Tolnay. I saw him one year, and I loved him the next year; I shall be forced to love him all my life."
She spoke in a tone of conviction; and, no doubt, she spoke truly. Tryphosa would never find time for more than one passion in a lifetime.
It was a hard moment for Gretchen. Two feelings fought within her – disgust and pity.
