要么？还是——要么？
玛格丽特·布莱克尼在那张烧焦了一半的纸上勉强读出的几个字，似乎正是命运之言。“我自己明天动身……”这句话她读得相当清楚；接着，因蜡烛烟雾而模糊的几个字被遮住了；但在最底部，还有另一句话，此刻像火焰般的字母一样清晰而鲜明地浮现在她的脑海中。“如果你想再和我说话，我将在凌晨一点整在晚餐室。”整封信署着那个匆匆涂画的标志——一朵小小的星形花，这对她来说已经很熟悉了。
凌晨一点整！现在已近十一点，最后一支小步舞曲正在演奏，安德鲁·弗克斯爵士和美丽的布莱克尼夫人带领着舞伴们，完成那精致而复杂的舞步。
近十一点了！那座精美的路易十五风格时钟在铜镀金支架上，指针似乎以令人抓狂的速度移动。再过两个小时，她的命运和阿尔芒的命运将被决定。在两小时内，她必须下定决心：是将这狡猾获得的秘密保留给自己，让她的兄弟听天由命，还是故意背叛一个勇敢的人——这个人毕生致力于帮助同胞，高贵、慷慨，尤其毫不怀疑？那似乎是一件可怕的事情。但还有阿尔芒！阿尔芒也是高贵而勇敢的，阿尔芒同样毫不怀疑。而且阿尔芒爱她，愿意把生命托付在她手中，而现在，当她能救他免于死亡时，她却犹豫了。哦！这太残忍了；她兄弟那温和善良的脸庞，充满对她的爱，似乎正责备地看着她。“你本可以救我，玛戈！”他仿佛在对她说，“而你选择了保全一个陌生人的性命，一个你不认识、从未见过的人，你宁愿他安全，而你却送我去断头台！”
所有这些冲突的想法在玛格丽特的脑海中翻腾，而她却面带微笑，优雅地滑过小步舞曲迷人的舞步。凭借她敏锐的感觉，她注意到她已完全平息了安德鲁爵士的恐惧。她的自我控制完美无缺——在此刻，在整个小步舞曲中，她比在法兰西喜剧院的舞台上表演得还要出色；但那时，她所爱的兄弟的性命并不依赖于她的演技。
她太聪明了，不会过度表演，也没有再提及那封想象中的情书——那封信曾让安德鲁·弗克斯爵士痛苦不堪的五分钟。她看着他焦虑的表情在她阳光般的微笑中融化，很快便察觉到，无论他当时心中有过多少疑虑，到小步舞曲的最后一个音符响起时，她已成功完全打消了他的疑虑；他从未意识到她有多么激动，维持那不断流动的平庸对话让她付出了多大的努力。
小步舞曲结束后，她请安德鲁爵士带她去隔壁房间。
“我答应过殿下去楼下吃晚餐，”她说，“但在我们分开之前，告诉我……我被原谅了吗？”
“原谅？”
“是的！承认吧，我刚才吓了你一跳……但记住，我不是英国人，我不认为交换情书是犯罪，我发誓我不会告诉我的小苏珊。但现在，告诉我，星期三我的水上派对上会欢迎你吗？”
“我不确定，布莱克尼夫人，”他含糊地回答，“我可能明天就要离开伦敦。”
“如果我是你，我不会那样做，”她认真地说；看到他眼中又出现焦虑的神情，她愉快地补充道；“没有人比你更会投球了，安德鲁爵士，在草地保龄球场上我们会非常想念你的。”
他带她穿过房间，进入另一个房间，殿下已在那里等待美丽的布莱克尼夫人。
“夫人，晚餐在等着我们，”王子说着，向玛格丽特伸出胳膊，“我满怀希望。命运女神在赌桌上对我如此冷漠，我满怀信心期待着美丽女神的微笑。”
“殿下在牌桌上运气不好吗？”玛格丽特问道，同时挽起王子的手臂。
“唉！非常不好。布莱克尼不仅是我父亲臣民中最富有的，而且运气也最离谱。对了，那位无与伦比的才子在哪里？我发誓，夫人，没有你的微笑和他的俏皮话，生活将是一片荒凉的沙漠。”
EITHER—OR?
The few words which Marguerite Blakeney had managed to read on the
half-scorched piece of paper, seemed literally to be the words of Fate.
“Start myself to-morrow. . . .” This she had read quite distinctly;
then came a blur caused by the smoke of the candle, which obliterated
the next few words; but, right at the bottom, there was another
sentence, which was now standing clearly and distinctly, like letters
of fire, before her mental vision. “If you wish to speak to me again, I
shall be in the supper-room at one o’clock precisely.” The whole was
signed with the hastily-scrawled little device—a tiny star-shaped
flower, which had become so familiar to her.
One o’clock precisely! It was now close upon eleven, the last minuet
was being danced, with Sir Andrew Ffoulkes and beautiful Lady Blakeney
leading the couples, through its delicate and intricate figures.
Close upon eleven! the hands of the handsome Louis XV. clock upon its
ormolu bracket seemed to move along with maddening rapidity. Two hours
more, and her fate and that of Armand would be sealed. In two hours she
must make up her mind whether she will keep the knowledge so cunningly
gained to herself, and leave her brother to his fate, or whether she
will wilfully betray a brave man, whose life was devoted to his
fellow-men, who was noble, generous, and above all, unsuspecting. It
seemed a horrible thing to do. But then, there was Armand! Armand, too,
was noble and brave, Armand, too, was unsuspecting. And Armand loved
her, would have willingly trusted his life in her hands, and now, when
she could save him from death, she hesitated. Oh! it was monstrous; her
brother’s kind, gentle face, so full of love for her, seemed to be
looking reproachfully at her. “You might have saved me, Margot!” he
seemed to say to her, “and you chose the life of a stranger, a man you
do not know, whom you have never seen, and preferred that he should be
safe, whilst you sent me to the guillotine!”
All these conflicting thoughts raged through Marguerite’s brain, while,
with a smile upon her lips, she glided through the graceful mazes of
the minuet. She noted—with that acute sense of hers—that she had
succeeded in completely allaying Sir Andrew’s fears. Her self-control
had been absolutely perfect—she was a finer actress at this moment, and
throughout the whole of this minuet, than she had ever been upon the
boards of the Comédie Française; but then, a beloved brother’s life had
not depended upon her histrionic powers.
She was too clever to overdo her part, and made no further allusions to
the supposed _billet doux_, which had caused Sir Andrew Ffoulkes such
an agonising five minutes. She watched his anxiety melting away under
her sunny smile, and soon perceived that, whatever doubt may have
crossed his mind at the moment, she had, by the time the last bars of
the minuet had been played, succeeded in completely dispelling it; he
never realised in what a fever of excitement she was, what effort it
cost her to keep up a constant ripple of _banal_ conversation.
When the minuet was over, she asked Sir Andrew to take her into the
next room.
“I have promised to go down to supper with His Royal Highness,” she
said, “but before we part, tell me . . . am I forgiven?”
“Forgiven?”
“Yes! Confess, I gave you a fright just now. . . . But, remember, I am
not an Englishwoman, and I do not look upon the exchanging of _billet
doux_ as a crime, and I vow I’ll not tell my little Suzanne. But now,
tell me, shall I welcome you at my water-party on Wednesday?”
“I am not sure, Lady Blakeney,” he replied evasively. “I may have to
leave London to-morrow.”
“I would not do that, if I were you,” she said earnestly; then seeing
the anxious look once more reappearing in his eyes, she added gaily;
“No one can throw a ball better than you can, Sir Andrew, we should so
miss you on the bowling-green.”
He had led her across the room, to one beyond, where already His Royal
Highness was waiting for the beautiful Lady Blakeney.
“Madame, supper awaits us,” said the Prince, offering his arm to
Marguerite, “and I am full of hope. The goddess Fortune has frowned so
persistently on me at hazard, that I look with confidence for the
smiles of the goddess of Beauty.”
“Your Highness has been unfortunate at the card tables?” asked
Marguerite, as she took the Prince’s arm.
“Aye! most unfortunate. Blakeney, not content with being the richest
among my father’s subjects, has also the most outrageous luck. By the
way, where is that inimitable wit? I vow, Madam, that this life would
be but a dreary desert without your smiles and his sallies.”
