“A love-scene,” she whispered rapidly, “a love-scene—quick—do you know one?”
And even as he had tried to rise she held him back, down on his knees.
He thought that fear was making her distracted.
“Mademoiselle—” he murmured, trying to soothe her.
“Try and understand,” she said with wonderful calm, “and do as I tell you. Aunt Marie has obeyed. Will you do likewise?”
“To the death!” he whispered eagerly.
“Then a love-scene,” she entreated. “Surely you know one. Rodrigue and Chimene! Surely—surely,” she urged, even as tears of anguish rose into her eyes, “you must—you must, or, if not that, something else. Quick! The very seconds are precious!”
They were indeed! Madame Belhomme, obedient as a frightened dog, had gone to the door and opened it; even her well-feigned grumblings could now be heard and the rough interrogations from the soldiery.
“Citizeness Lange!” said a gruff voice.
“In her boudoir, quoi!”