The glance she gave him was as withering as her gentle eyes could make it; then she turned her back upon him and began to glide away, alone, down the room.
"Mademoiselle—" said Ratoneau; his voice grated on her ears.
Was he laughing? was he angry? in any case she was resolved not to speak to the insolent creature again.
"Listen, mademoiselle," said Ratoneau, more loudly, and without rising. "Listen! I will bring your cousin back."
She wavered, paused, then turned and looked at him. He gazed at her gravely, intently; his look and manner were a little less offensive now.
"Yes—I am not an ogre," he said. "I don't eat boys and girls. But I assure you there are people in the Empire who do. And you are quite wrong if you think that an innocent man is never punished. The police may have their reasons—bang—there go the big gates of Vincennes, and the stronger reason that opens them again is hard to find. Innocent or guilty—after all, that pretty cousin of yours has touched a good deal of pitch in the way of chouannerie, mademoiselle."
"You said—" Hélène waited and stammered.
"I said I would bring him back. You want to understand me? Sit down beside me here."
The girl hesitated. "Courage! for Angelot!" she said to herself.
She did not believe in the man; she dreaded him; shrank from him; but the name she loved was even more powerful than Ratoneau had expected.