‘Ever—ever!’ murmured Sainte-Croix. And so far as passion is love, he spoke truly at that moment.
‘I cannot live without thee, Gaudin,’ continued Marie. ‘Antoine knows of our love. I saw it in his face to-night as we returned from the Place Maubert. He will kill thee, Gaudin; and, my father—’ Marie shuddered with well-feigned terror.
‘Has your husband seen M. d’Aubray to-night?’ inquired Sainte-Croix.
‘They were closeted together after our return,’ replied the Marchioness.
Quick as thought Sainte-Croix raised his head to the face of the Marchioness, and, half-muttering to himself, said—
‘You have not played me false again?’ A shower of kisses was the only answer. Another pause ensued, broken by Sainte-Croix.
‘Marie!’ he said, ‘they must die, or our happiness is impossible.’
‘Who?’ asked the Marchioness eagerly.
‘Your husband and your father.’
With a hasty shriek Marie flung her lover from her, and retreated as far as the couch would allow her, repeating, as if in a dream, ‘Die! my husband and my father!’