“Monsieur,” she said, “let me beg you now to go away. If you care to, come and see me this evening. I will explain everything. It is a little family affair which brings me here.”
“A family affair, Madame, with Bernadine, the enemy of France,” De Grost declared, gravely.
She collapsed miserably, her fingers grasping at the air, the cry which broke from her lips harsh and unnatural. Before he could tell what was happening, she was on her knees before him.
“Spare me,” she begged, trying to seize his hands.
“Madame,” De Grost answered, “I am not your judge. You will kindly hand over to me the document which you are carrying.”
She took it from the bosom of her dress. De Grost glanced at it, and placed it in his breast-pocket.
“And now?” she faltered.
De Grost sighed—she was a very beautiful woman.
“Madame,” he said, “the career of a spy is, as you have doubtless sometimes realized, a dangerous one.”
“It is finished,” she assured him, breathlessly. “Monsieur le Baron, you will keep my secret? Never again, I swear it, will I sin like this. You, yourself, shall be the trustee of my honor.”