"Mayenne has not kept faith with you!" monsieur went on vehemently. "He has broken his oath. I mean not last night. I had my warning; the attack was provoked. But yesterday in the afternoon, before I made the attempt to see you, he sent to arrest me for the murder of the lackey Pontou."
"Paul's deed!" she cried in white surprise. "He spoke of it—we heard, Félix and I. What, monsieur! sent to arrest you? But you are here."
"They missed me. They took by mistake Paul de Lorraine."
"He was not here last night!" she cried. "Mayenne was demanding him of me."
"Then he slept pleasantly in the Bastille. May he never look on the outside of its walls again!"
"But he will, he does. He must be free by this time; they cannot keep Mayenne's nephew in the Bastille. And oh, if he hated you before, how he will hate you now! Oh, Étienne, if you love me, go! Go to your own camp, your own side, at St. Denis. There are you safe. Here in Paris you may not draw a tranquil breath."
"And shall I flee my dangers? Shall I run, in the face of my peril?"
"Ah, monsieur, perhaps your life is nothing to you. But it is more to me than tongue can tell."
"My love, my love!" He snatched her into his arms; she held away from him to look him beseechingly in the face, her little clutching hands on his shoulders.
"Oh, you will go! you will go!"