"Ah, you remember!" cried she, unheeding. "You remember that night at the Three Crowns, and the morning after! Till now you had forgotten, perhaps? Otherwise, surely, you would scarcely have dared to come—even you! I had heard a whisper of your name, but I did not believe——"
"Stop!" cried La Vireville, breaking in, in his turn. "I assure you——"
Her hand was already on the door. "Too late, M. le Marquis! What is done is done. But you shall never step into André's shoes. And at least you know now why I am going to give you up!"
"The devil you are!" said La Vireville, with a very grim face. The pistol in his hand covered her with a perfectly steady aim. "There is this between you and your hospitable project, Mme. de Guéfontaine!" He cocked it.
She stood flattened against the door, wide-eyed, scarcely breathing, but not attempting to move.
"Now swear," commanded the émigré, "swear on the crucifix there that you will do no such thing! Otherwise I shall fire!" For he knew that she would be through the door before he could spring on her.
"I will not swear!" cried she, her face a white flame. "Shoot me if you will—you can do no worse to me than you have already done through André—but if you do not shoot me, as sure as there is a God above us, I shall summon the National Guard of this place to take you!"
Though the colour of a sheet, she did not flinch before the barrel, not ten feet away. La Vireville set his teeth, and himself changed colour. But he could not do it. The pistol sank.
"Madame," he said, in his usual careless tone, "if you are treacherous you are devilish well-plucked. I wish I were as strong-minded. Go and fetch the National Guard then, and be damned to it!"