“To the end that seven lives may be saved, Mademoiselle,” he answered, bowing.
“At a price?” she muttered.
“At a price,” he answered. “A price which women do not find it hard to pay—at Court. ’Tis paid every day for pleasure or a whim, for rank or the entrée, for robes and gewgaws. Few, Mademoiselle, are privileged to buy a life; still fewer, seven!”
She began to tremble. “I would rather die—seven times!” she cried, her voice quivering. And she tried to rise, but sat down again.
“And these?” he said, indicating the servants.
“Far, far rather!” she repeated passionately.
“And Monsieur? And Monsieur?” he urged with stern persistence, while his eyes passed lightly from her to Tignonville and back to her again, their depths inscrutable. “If you love Monsieur, Mademoiselle, and I believe you do—”
“I can die with him!” she cried.
“And he with you?”
She writhed in her chair.
“And he with you?” Count Hannibal repeated, with emphasis; and he thrust forward his head. “For that is the question. Think, think, Mademoiselle. It is in my power to save from death him whom you love; to save you; to save this canaille, if it so please you. It is in my power to save him, to save you, to save all; and I will save all—at a price! If, on the other hand, you deny me that price, I will as certainly leave all to perish, as perish they will, before the sun that is now rising sets to-night!”
Mademoiselle looked straight before her, the flicker of a dreadful prescience in her eyes.
“And the price?” she muttered. “The price?”
“You, Mademoiselle.”
“I?”
