He smiled. “I am glad to find you so shrewd,” he replied. “In an honest wife it is an excellent quality. Yes, Mademoiselle; one or two.”
“Who? Who? I pray you tell me.”
“M. de Montgomery, who slept beyond the river, for one; and the Vidame, and some with him. M. de Biron, whom I count a Huguenot, and who holds the Arsenal in the King’s teeth, for another. And a few more. Enough, in a word, Mademoiselle, to keep us wakeful. It is impossible, therefore, for me to postpone the fulfilment of your promise.”
“A promise on conditions!” she retorted, in rage that she could win no more. And every line of her splendid figure, every tone of her voice flamed sudden, hot rebellion. “I do not go for nothing! You gave me the lives of all in the house, Monsieur! Of all!” she repeated with passion. “And all are not here! Before I marry you, you must show me M. de Tignonville alive and safe!”
He shrugged his shoulders. “He has taken himself off,” he said. “It is naught to me what happens to him now.”
“It is all to me!” she retorted.
At that he glared at her, the veins of his forehead swelling suddenly. But after a seeming struggle with himself he put the insult by, perhaps for future reckoning and account.
“I did what I could,” he said sullenly. “Had I willed it he had died there and then in the room below. I gave him his life. If he has risked it anew and lost it, it is naught to me.”
“It was his life you gave me,” she repeated stubbornly. “His life—and the others. But that is not all,” she continued; “you promised me a minister.”
He nodded, smiling sourly to himself, as if this confirmed a suspicion he had entertained.
“Or a priest,” he said.
