"Do you not prefer the French opera,
after all?"
"All good music is the same to me," I answered, calmly returning his
amused look with a contemptuous one. "Wagner, Verdi, Gounod, or Bizet,
it matters not."
The attache passed some cigarettes. Only the Prince refused.
"No thanks. I am not that kind of a villain." He laughed as he
uttered these words, and looked at me.
I would have given much to possess that man's coolness.
"Till we meet again," he said, as I continued on. "Shall I add
pleasant dreams?"
"I am obliged to you," I answered over my shoulder, "but I never have
them. I sleep too soundly."
"Cousin," said I, later, "what was that opera?"
"I forgot to bring along a program," said Pembroke.
CHAPTER XXIII
When Pembroke and I arrived at the Strasburg inn, on the north road,
neither the Prince nor Von Walden were in evidence. I stepped from our
carriage and gazed interestedly around me. The scene was a picturesque
one. The sun, but half risen, was of a rusty brass, and all east was
mottled with purple and salmon hues. The clearing, a quarter of a mile
away, where the Prince and I were to settle our dispute, was hidden
under a fine white snow; and the barren trees which encircled it stood
out blackly.
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