“It is madame’s bed,” said Francois. “But I have looked behind.”
“I am most sorry to have disarranged you,” said the policeman, satisfied with the answer; “but we shall have him yet.” And he retired.
The last footsteps died away, the last door of the apartments closed behind the officers, and Eugenie and her servant stood alone gazing on each other.
“You may retire,” said she at last; and taking her purse from the table, she placed it in his hands.
The man took it, with a significant look. “Madame may depend on my discretion.”
Eugenie was alone again. Those words rang in her ear,—Eugenie de Merville dependent on the discretion of her lackey! She sunk into her chair, and, her excitement succeeded by exhaustion, leaned her face on her hands, and burst into tears. She was aroused by a low voice; she looked up, and the young man was kneeling at her feet.
“Go—go!” she said: “I have done for you all I can.”
“You heard—you heard—my own hireling, too! At the hazard of my own good name you are saved. Go!”
“Of your good name!”—for Eugenie forgot that it was looks, not words, that had so wrung her pride—“Your good name,” he repeated: and glancing round the room—the toilette, the curtain, the recess he had quitted—all that bespoke that chastest sanctuary of a chaste woman, which for a stranger to enter is, as it were, to profane—her meaning broke on him. “Your good name—your hireling! No, madame,—no!” And as he spoke, he rose to his feet. “Not for me, that sacrifice! Your humanity shall not cost you so dear. Ho, there! I am the man you seek.” And he strode to the door.
Eugenie was penetrated with the answer. She sprung to him—she grasped his garments.