you do but”—alas! her pride began to break down, her voice to quiver, she looked piteously at him—“by staying here make it harder for me to—to”
“Hush!” cried Madame Carlat. “Hush!” And as they started and turned towards her—she was at the end of the chamber by the door, almost out of earshot—she raised a warning hand. “Listen!” she muttered, “some one has entered the house.”
“’Tis my messenger from Biron,” Tignonville answered sullenly. And he drew his cowl over his face, and, hiding his hands in his sleeves, moved towards the door. But on the threshold he turned and held out his arms. He could not go thus. “Mademoiselle! Clotilde!” he cried with passion, “for the last time, listen to me, come with me. Be persuaded!”
“Hush!” Madame Carlat interposed again, and turned a scared face on them. “It is no messenger! It is Tavannes himself: I know his voice.” And she wrung her hands. “Oh, mon Dieu, mon Dieu, what are we to do?” she continued, panic-stricken. And she looked all ways about the room.
