“Through this door!” Madame Carlat answered, hurrying to it.
He was following when the Countess stepped forward and interposed between him and the door.
“Stay!” she cried; and there was not one who did not notice a new decision in her voice, a new dignity in her bearing. “Stay, Monsieur, we may be going too fast. To go out now and in that guise—may it not be to incur greater peril than you incur here? I feel sure that you are in no danger of your life at present. Therefore, why run the risk”
“In no danger, Madame!” he cried, interrupting her in astonishment. “Have you seen the gibbet in the Square? Do you call that no danger?”
“It is not erected for you.”
“No?”
“No, Monsieur,” she answered firmly, “I swear it is not. And I know of reasons, urgent reasons, why you should not go. M. de Tavannes”—she named her husband nervously, as conscious of the weak spot—“before he rode abroad laid strict orders on all to keep within, since the smallest matter might kindle the city. Therefore, M. de Tignonville, I request, nay I entreat,” she continued with greater urgency, as she saw his gesture of denial, “you to stay here until he returns.”
“And you, Madame, will answer for my life?”
She faltered. For a moment, a moment only, her colour ebbed. What if she deceived herself? What if she surrendered her old lover to death? What if—but the doubt was of a moment only. Her duty was plain.
“I will answer for it,” she said, with pale lips, “if you remain here. And I beg, I implore you—by the love you once had for me, M. de Tignonville,” she added desperately, seeing that he was about to refuse, “to remain here.”
“Once!” he retorted, lashing himself into ignoble rage.
