She whispered it, aghast.
“As its representative, Madame,” he said, “I have no choice but to demand one of you. You can refuse to give it, referring your defence to a public occasion.” (He would not see how her anguish entreated him.) “In that event, I make my bow, my apologies, and I withdraw. The issue then is very simple. You will be called to account for your subsidising of a dangerous conspirator against the State, and will probably be put on your trial with him. As Prefect of this Province, I can guarantee the case at least an impartial hearing. My presence, Madame, does not insult the law, however offensive it may be to the criminal.”
She hurried nearer to him—broke out, and down, in an instant.
“Before God, Monsieur! You must believe me—you must. I know nothing of this man’s use of what he wrings from me; I am not his confederate, but—”
He interrupted her, sharp and sudden,—
“But his victim.”
She cried: “O, Monsieur, Monsieur! O, my God!” and buried her face in her hands.
Now at that his gluttonous moment passed. Henceforth his heart was hers to sport with. It had only played the tyrant hitherto to nurse to ecstasy its own compunction. He spoke in a strangely softened tone,—
“He is black-mailing you?”
“No!” she cried, looking up in quick miserable panic. “I have not said it.”