“I will not indeed.”
Desperate to run, she put a foot over the bedside. He held her back with a force gentle but irresistible.
“Henri!” she cried in agony, “I was wretched all the evening—O, believe me!”
“Ah! I thought you did a mistaken thing in going. What a pity you rejected my advice!”
She shrank from him, her throat gulping, her eyes clouded with horror.
“Your voice is cold,” she whispered—“cold, cold as your eyes, as your heart. O, Death! Will you have no mercy? Henri!”
“Why, you are overwrought, lady. This is foolish. Come, the broth is cooling.”
“Must I drink it?”
“To please me.”
“My confessor first—only for five minutes.”