He laid his hand upon the table and leaned forward.
"With me, yes," he said, speaking rapidly, yet with lips that scarcely seemed to move. "I have come for you, and I mean to take you. Be wise, Mademoiselle Stephanie! Come quietly!"
She scarcely heard him. Frenzy had gripped her—wild, unreasoning, all-mastering frenzy. The supreme moment had come for her, and, with a face that was like a death-mask, she raised the silver flask to her lips.
But no drop of its contents ever touched them, for in that instant Pierre vaulted the intervening table and hurled himself upon her. The flask flew from her hand and spun across the room, falling she knew not where; while she herself was caught in the man's arms and held in a grip like iron.
She struggled fiercely to free herself, but for many seconds she struggled in vain. Then, just as her strength was beginning to leave her, he abruptly set her free.
"Come!" he said. "There is no time for childish folly. Find a cloak, and we will go."
His tone was peremptory, but it held no anger. Turning from her, he walked deliberately away into the outer room.
She sank back trembling against the wall, nearer to collapse than she had ever been before. But the momentary respite had its effect, and instinctively she began to gather herself together for fresh effort. He had wrested her deliverance from her, but she would never accept what he offered in exchange. She would never escape with his man. She would sooner—yes, a thousand times sooner—face the mercy of the mob.
"Mademoiselle Stephanie!" Impatiently his voice came to her from the farther room. "Are you coming, or am I to fetch you?"
She did not answer. A sudden wild idea had formed in her brain. If she could slip past him—if she could reach the outer door—he would never overtake her on the corridor. But she must be brave, she must be subtle, she must watch her opportunity.