“I thought so, my lord,” said Felton; “but as the prisoner is a woman, after all, I wish to pay her the attention that every man of gentle birth owes to a woman, if not on her account, at least on my own.”
Milady shuddered through her whole system. These words of Felton’s passed like ice through her veins.
“So,” replied de Winter, laughing, “that beautiful hair so skillfully disheveled, that white skin, and that languishing look, have not yet seduced you, you heart of stone?”
“No, my Lord,” replied the impassive young man; “your Lordship may be assured that it requires more than the tricks and coquetry of a woman to corrupt me.”
“In that case, my brave lieutenant, let us leave Milady to find out something else, and go to supper; but be easy! She has a fruitful imagination, and the second act of the comedy will not delay its steps after the first.”
And at these words Lord de Winter passed his arm through that of Felton, and led him out, laughing.
“Oh, I will be a match for you!” murmured Milady, between her teeth; “be assured of that, you poor spoiled monk, you poor converted soldier, who has cut his uniform out of a monk’s frock!”
“By the way,” resumed de Winter, stopping at the threshold of the door, “you must not, Milady, let this check take away your appetite. Taste that fowl and those fish. On my honor, they are not poisoned. I have a very good cook, and he is not to be my heir; I have full and perfect confidence in him. Do as I do. Adieu, dear sister, till your next swoon!”
This was all that Milady could endure. Her hands clutched her armchair; she ground her teeth inwardly; her eyes followed the motion of the door as it closed behind Lord de Winter and Felton, and the moment she was alone a fresh fit of despair seized her. She cast her eyes upon the table, saw the glittering of a knife, rushed toward it and clutched it; but her disappointment was cruel. The blade was round, and of flexible silver.
A burst of laughter resounded from the other side of the ill-closed door, and the door reopened.