rapt gaze, the unchanging attitude only confirmed his opinion of the course she would adopt. He was thankful to find her more composed; and in fear of such a scene as had already passed between them, he stole away again. He returned by-and-by, but with the greatest reluctance, and only because Carlat’s urgency would take no refusal.
He came this time to crave the key of the wicket, explaining that—rather to satisfy his own conscience and the men than with any hope of success—he proposed to go halfway along the causeway, and thence by signs invite a conference.
“It is just possible,” he added, hesitating—he feared nothing so much as to raise hopes in her—“that by the offer of a money ransom, Madame—”
“Go,” she said, without turning her head. “Offer what you please. But”—bitterly—“have a care of them! Montsoreau is very like Montereau! Beware of the bridge!”
He went and came again in half an hour. Then, indeed, though she had spoken as if hope was dead in her, she was on her feet at the first sound of his tread on the stairs; her parted lips and her white face questioned him. He shook his head.
“There is a priest,” he said in broken tones, “with them, whom God will judge. It is his plan, and he is without mercy or pity.”
“You bring nothing from—him?”
“They will not suffer him to write again.”
“You did not see him?”
“No.”
