"Ah, but we will send that little cousin to the wars, or to America," he thought, as she came slowly back and let herself sink down, pale and cold, in the opposite corner of the sofa.
"Where is my cousin, monsieur?" she said under her breath.
"I suppose, as the police arrested him, that he is in their hands," said Ratoneau. "Where he is at this moment I know no more than you do."
"But you said—"
"Yes—I will do it. You can believe, can you not, that I have more influence at headquarters than poor Monsieur de la Marinière—a little country squire who has saved himself by licking the dust before each man in power?"
"It is not right for you to speak so of my father's cousin, who has been so excellent for us all," Hélène said quickly; then she blushed at her own boldness. "But if you can really do this—I shall be grateful, monsieur."
The words were coldly, impatiently said; she might have been throwing a bone to a begging dog. Ratoneau bent forward, devouring her with his eyes. The delicate line of her profile was partly turned away from him; the eyelids drooped so low that the long lashes almost rested on the cheek. All about her brow and ears, creeping down to her white neck, the fair curls clustered. Soft and narrow folds of white muslin, lace, and fine embroidery, clothed her slender figure with an exaggerated simplicity. Her foot, just advanced beyond the frills of the gown, her white long fingers clasping her fan; every feature, every touch, every detail, was as finely beautiful as art and nature could make it; Hélène was the perfection of dainty aristocracy in the exquisite freshness of its youth.
"I will do it—I will do it—for love of you," Ratoneau said, and his voice became suddenly hoarse. "You are beautiful—and you are mine—mine."
The girl shuddered from head to foot.
"No!" she said violently.