"But your promise," she urged, with real passion ringing in her voice, "your promise to him. . . ."
"I made a far more solemn one to you, madame, never to interfere in matters of State."
"I'll release you of that," she cried impulsively; "think, milor . . . I entreat you to think! . . . there must be some way out of this terrible labyrinth . . . there must be some one whom you can trust . . ."
She checked herself, and a quick hot blush rose to her cheeks. She thought that she had detected a quick flash in his eyes at these last words of hers, a flash which had caused that sudden rush of blood to her temples, but which was extinguished almost as soon as it arose: he said quite naturally and tonelessly:
"There is no one. How could there be?"
"But surely, surely," she repeated with growing, obstinate vehemence, "you can think of something to do . . . you have the means . . . you are rich . . . have you no enthusiasms, milor?"
"Oh! . . ." he said deprecatingly, "so few! . . . they are scarce worthy of the name. . . ."
"No thought how to help your friend who is in fear and peril of his life? . . . Heavens above us, what are the men of France? Wooden dolls or . . ."
"That what the women of France have made them, Madame," he said quietly.
"Then you have no thought, or initiative how to help your friend?" she retorted.