"You and I alone are in the secret, Madame."
"If I should call for help?"
"Call, Madame; many will hear. But this paper, and the general fear of
Mazarin since the Fronde, and the fact that I have practically
obliterated my signature by scratching a pen across it . . . Well, if
you think it wise."
Her arms dropped upon the table, and the despair on her face deceived
him. "Monsieur, this is unmanly, cruel!"
"All is fair in love and war. My love compels me to use force. What
if this document had fallen into D'Herouville's hands? He would have
gone about it less gently."
Madame bent her head upon her arms, and the candles threw a golden
sparkle into her hair. The vicomte's heart beat fast, and his hand
stole forth and hovered above that beautiful head but dared not touch
it. Presently madame looked up. There were tears in her eyes, but the
vicomte did not know that they were tears of rage.
"Think, Madame," he said eagerly; "is a dungeon more agreeable to you
than I am, and would not a dungeon be worse than death?"
Madame roughly brushed her eyes. "You speak of love; I doubt your
sincerity.
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