Count Hannibal smiled, his lip curling. “That,” he replied, “is for Mademoiselle to say.”
“But if she says it? If she says it, Monsieur? What then?”
Tavannes drew forth a comfit-box, such as it was the fashion of the day to carry, as men of a later time carried a snuff-box. He slowly chose a prune.
“If she says it?” he answered. “Then M. de Tignonville has regained his sweetheart. And M. de Tavannes has lost his bride.”
“You say so?”
“Yes. But—”
“But what?”
“But she will not say it,” Tavannes replied coolly.
“Why not?”
“Why not?”
“Yes, Monsieur, why not?” the younger man repeated, trembling.
“Because, M. de Tignonville, it is not true.”
“But she did not speak!” Tignonville retorted, with passion—the futile passion of the bird which beats its wings against a cage. “She did not speak. She could not promise, therefore.”
Tavannes ate the prune slowly, seemed to give a little thought to its flavour, approved it a true Agen plum, and at last spoke.
“It is not for you to say whether she promised,” he returned dryly, “nor for me. It is for Mademoiselle.”
“You leave it to her?”
“I leave it to her to say whether she promised.”
“Then she must say No!” Tignonville cried in a tone of triumph and relief. “For she did not speak. Mademoiselle, listen!” he continued, turning with outstretched hands and appealing to her with passion. “Do you hear? Do you understand? You have but to speak to be free!
