“I would not be too sure of that, mademoiselle,” I interrupted. “The bonds have not yet been forged which could not somehow be broken.”
“But bonds of honor!” she protested. “It is your word!”
“Yes, even those! There is a limit to endurance;” and I gripped my hands together to keep them away from her.
“Well, that limit shall not be passed, M. de Tavernay,” she assured me, her lips breaking into a smile, and, quite regardless of her danger, she leaned nearer to me. “Besides I have a deep confidence in you. The sentiments you have to-night expressed completely reassure me—I see now how foolish I was to think there could be any risk in coming here with you.”
It was a two-edged compliment and I did not relish it, but she was gazing up at me with eyes so guileless and trusting that I choked back the words which rose in my throat. Perhaps, had I been older and more experienced with women, I might have seen the flicker of mischief which I suspect dwelt in their depths. Guilelessness is a favorite snare of Circe’s.
“Let me whisper you a secret,” she added, leaning toward me, a little quirk at the corner of her lips, “your betrothed is a charming girl!”
“Oh, you know her!” I said, and stared at her gloomily, for she seemed to delight in torturing me.
“No—I have never met her—have never even seen her,” and she laughed to herself as she uttered the words; “but I have heard her spoken of. With her, you will soon forget this poor Charlotte de Chambray—you will fall in love with her even more desperately than you have with me, and she will make you happy.”
“And will you regret that, mademoiselle?” I asked, realizing the folly of the question, but unable to suppress it.
“Not in the least!” she retorted, and burst into a peal of laughter at sight of my crestfallen countenance—though it seemed to me that her face showed traces of crimson, too.