“I say I can procure one an order to visit him—no more. Appearances must be kept. The Government still counts, though in Savoy. What then! ropes are cheap; nights dark; the window of his prison is unbarred. They reckon on a precipice to hold—safe enough, not counting helpful friends—and lovers. Once over the border and in France, he’s safe—may snap his fingers at us, so long as he stays there. Give me what I ask, and you shall have the order.”
“O, not for me!”
“For whom, then, mistress? No, no—none else. I wash my hands of all collusion. You entreat me for a friend—or better; my kind heart yields. The permit shall be an open one—made out to bearer. I’ll promise that much. Confederate with whom you will. I’m not to ask nor know. Those are my terms. Take or leave.”
“My ruin.”
“Well, it’s a large sum, I confess—worth a saint’s ransom. If you think not, you needn’t sign the covenant. It’s true your estate’s of a constitution to heal itself of even such a wound; and there’s no heir for you to nurse, or nurse it for. But please yourself.”
“Give me the paper.”
With a hand stone-steady she put her name to it.
“And here’s in acknowledgment for need—signed Léotade, and countersigned,” said he, and held the order out to her.
She made no movement to take it; he threw it at her feet, and, without any sign of triumph or emotion, left the house.
She heard the door clang on him. The sound seemed to snap some fibre in her brain. Suddenly she was hurrying up and down, laughing, weeping, imploring,—