“It is not the Brunswicker I fear,” she cried. “It is the enemy from within—from within!”
She dropped her hand to her heart, as if that were her secret foe.
“Citoyenne,” whispered a voice in her ear, “there is one waiting in the foyer that is peremptory to see thee.”
She stared a moment, with a lost expression; then looked aside, half in anger, to see her country Grisel regarding her appealingly.
“What one, little fool—little Bona?”
“Indeed, I do not know. He implored me by the love of God.”
Théroigne laughed uneasily.
“Rather by the love that is gratuitous, thou little grand’-bêta. Hush! Go before, and I will follow.”
Some one drew aside the portière; she passed out, with a smile that fled from her face as she descended the stairs. Under the dim oil-lamp in the hall a cloaked figure was standing. As she came upon it, she saw it was the English lord. The warmth and fragrance of a remoter atmosphere that she brought with her shivered into frost on the instant. That was inevitable; yet she would always have foregone many plenary indulgences to draw this man into sin on her account.
He took a quick step forward, made as if to seize her by the arm—but checked the impulse.