“he will be my master! He will break me to his will and to his hand! I shall be his! His, body and soul, body and soul!” she continued drearily, as she sank into a chair and, rocking herself to and fro, covered her face. “I shall be his! His till I die!”
The man’s eyes burned, and the pulse in his temples beat wildly.
“But you shall not!” he exclaimed. “I may be no match for him in cunning, you say well. But I can kill him. And I will!” He paced up and down. “I will!”
“You should have done it when he was here,” she answered, half in scorn, half in earnest.
“It is not too late,” he cried; and then he stopped, silenced by the opening door. It was Javette who entered.
They looked at her, and before she spoke were on their feet. Her face, white and eager, marking something besides fear, announced that she brought news. She closed the door behind her, and in a moment it was told.
“Monsieur can escape, if he is quick,” she cried in a low tone; and they saw that she trembled with excitement. “They are at supper. But he must be quick! He must be quick!”
“Is not the door guarded?”
“It is, but”
“And he knows! Your mistress says that he knows that I am here.”
For a moment Javette looked startled. “It is possible,” she muttered. “But he has gone out.”
Madame Carlat clapped her hands. “I heard the door close,” she said, “three minutes ago.”
“And if Monsieur can reach the room in which he supped last night, the window that was broken is only blocked”—she swallowed once or twice in her excitement—“with something he can move. And then Monsieur is in the street, where his cowl will protect him.”
