when for her sake he had been false to his mistress, to his friends, to his faith, to his cause? Like it, when he knew as he listened that all was lost, and nothing gained, not even this poor, unworthy, shameful compensation? Like it? No wonder that words failed him, and he glared at her in rage, in misery, in shame.
“Oh, if you don’t like it,” she continued, tossing her head after a momentary pause, “then you should not have come! It is of no profit to glower at me, Monsieur. You do not frighten me.”
“I would—I would to God I had not come!” he groaned.
“And, I dare say, that you had never seen me—since you cannot win me!”
“That too,” he exclaimed.
She was of an extraordinary levity, and at that, after staring at him a moment, she broke into shrill laughter.
“A little more, and I’ll send you to my cousin Hannibal!” she said. “You do not know how anxious he is to see you. Have you a mind,” with a waggish look, “to play bride’s man, M. de Tignonville? Or will you give away the bride? It is not too late, though soon it will be!”
He winced, and from red grew pale. “What do you mean?” he stammered; and, averting his eyes in shame, seeing now all the littleness, all the baseness of his position, “Has he—married her?” he continued.
“Ho, ho!” she cried in triumph. “I’ve hit you now, have I, Monsieur? I’ve hit you!” And mocking him, “Has he—married her?” she lisped. “No; but he will marry her, have no fear of that! He will marry her. He waits but to get a priest. Would you like to see what he says?” she continued, playing with him as a cat plays with a mouse. “I had a note from him yesterday. Would you like to see how welcome you’ll be at the wedding?” And she flaunted a piece of paper before his eyes.
