She was gay, artless to the last. She accompanied Heron to the door herself, chaffing him about his escort.
“You are an aristo, citizen,” she said, gazing with well-feigned admiration on the two sleuth-hounds who stood in wait in the anteroom; “it makes me proud to see so many citizens at my door. Come and see me play Camille—come to-night, and don’t forget the green-room door—it will always be kept invitingly open for you.”
She bobbed him a curtsey, and he walked out, closely followed by his two men; then at last she closed the door behind them. She stood there for a while, her ear glued against the massive panels, listening for their measured tread down the oak staircase. At last it rang more sharply against the flagstones of the courtyard below; then she was satisfied that they had gone, and went slowly back to the boudoir.
CHAPTER X. SHADOWS
The tension on her nerves relaxed; there was the inevitable reaction. Her knees were shaking under her, and she literally staggered into the room.
But Armand was already near her, down on both his knees this time, his arms clasping the delicate form that swayed like the slender stems of narcissi in the breeze.
“Oh! you must go out of Paris at once—at once,” she said through sobs which no longer would be kept back.
“He’ll return—I know that he will return—and you will not be safe until you are back in England.”
But he could not think of himself or of anything in the future. He had forgotten Heron, Paris, the world; he could only think of her.