which yawned before her. She asked herself, shivering, if she would ever sink to that.
All the loyalty of a strong nature, all the virtue of a good woman, revolted against the thought. True, her husband—husband she must call him—had not deserved her love; but his bizarre magnanimity, the gloomy, disdainful kindness with which he had crowned possession, even the unity of their interests, which he had impressed upon her in so strange a fashion, claimed a return in honour.
To be paid—how? how? That was the crux which perplexed, which frightened, which harassed her. For, if she told her suspicions, she exposed her lover to capture by one who had no longer a reason to be merciful. And if she sought occasion to see Tignonville and so to dissuade him, she did it at deadly risk to herself. Yet what other course lay open to her if she would not stand by? If she would not play the traitor? If she
“Madame,”—it was her husband, and he spoke to her suddenly,—“are you not well?” And, looking up guiltily, she found his eyes fixed curiously on hers.
Her face turned red and white and red again, and she faltered something and looked from him, but only to meet Madame St. Lo’s eyes. My lady laughed softly in sheer mischief.
“What is it?” Count Hannibal asked sharply.
But Madame St. Lo’s answer was a line of Ronsard.
