"Do you imagine," asked La Martinière, "that my lady is going to speak to you in the middle of the night? Can't you understand that she has been in bed ever so long, and that it is as much as my place is worth to awaken her out of her first sweet sleep, which is so precious to a person at her time of life?"
"I know," answered the person beneath, "that she has just this moment put away the manuscript of the novel 'Clelia,' at which she is working so hard, and is writing some verses which she means to read to-morrow at Madame de Maintenon's. I implore you, Madame La Martinière, be so compassionate as to open the door. Upon your doing so depends the escape of an unfortunate creature from destruction. Nay, honour, freedom, a human life, depend on this moment in which I must speak with your lady. Remember, her anger will rest upon you for ever when she comes to know that it was you who cruelly drove away from her door the unfortunate wretch who came to beg for her help."
"But why should you come for her help at such an extraordinary time of the night?" asked La Martinière. "Come back in the morning at a reasonable hour." But the reply came up, "Does destiny, when it strikes like the destroying lightning, consider hours and times? When there is but one moment when rescue is possible, is help to be put off? Open me the door. Have no fear of a wretched being who is without defence, hunted, under the pressure of a terrible fate, and flies to your lady for succour from the most imminent peril."
La Martinière heard the stranger moaning and groaning as he uttered those words in the deepest sorrow, and the tone of his voice was that of a youth, soft and gentle, and going profoundly to the heart. She was deeply touched, and without much more hesitation she went and fetched the key.
As soon as she opened the door, the form shrouded in the mantle burst violently in, and passing La Martinière, cried in a wild voice, "Take me to your lady!" La Martinière held up the light which she was carrying, and the glimmer fell on the face of a very young man, distorted and frightfully drawn, and as pale as death. She almost fell down on the landing for terror when he opened his cloak and showed the glittering hilt of a stiletto sticking in his doublet. He flashed his gleaming eyes at her, and cried, more wildly than before, "Take me to your lady, I tell you."
La Martinière saw that her mistress was in the utmost danger. All her affection for her, who was to her as the kindest of mothers, flamed up and created a courage which she herself would scarcely have thought herself capable of. She quickly closed the door of her room, moved rapidly in front of it, and said, in a brave, firm voice, "Your furious behaviour, now that you have got into the house, is very different to what might have been expected from the way you spoke down in the street. I see now that I had pity on you a little too easily. My lady you shall not see or speak with at this hour. If you have no bad designs, and are not afraid to show yourself in daylight, come and tell her your business to-morrow; but take yourself off out of this house now."
He heaved a hollow sigh, glared at La Martinière with a terrible expression, and grasped his dagger. She silently commended her soul to God, but stood firm and looked him straight in the face, pressing herself more firmly against the door through which he would have to pass in order to reach her mistress.
"Let me get to your lady, I tell you!" he cried once more.
"Do what you will," said La Martinière, "I shall not move from this spot. Finish the crime which you have begun to commit. A shameful death on the Place de Grève will overtake you, as it has your accursed comrades in wickedness."
"Ha! you are right, La Martinière," he cried. "I am armed, and I look as if I were an accursed robber and murderer. But my comrades are not executed--are not executed," and he drew his dagger, advancing with poisonous looks towards the terrified woman.