"What am I going to do? Listen. You shall hear even if you can not see." The vicomte entered the hut.
Madame was standing in a corner … The Chevalier lived. If she could but hold the vicomte at arm's length for a space!
"Well, Madame, have you no friendly welcome for one who loves you fondly? I offered to make you my wife; but now! What was it that Monsieur Shakspere says? … 'Sit you down, sweet, till I wring your heart'? Was that it?"
All her courage returned at the sound of his voice. Her tongue spoke not, but the hate in her eyes was a language he read well enough.
"Mine! … For a day, or a week, or for life! Has it not occurred to you, sweet? You are mine. Here we are, alone together, you and I; and I am a man in all things, and you are a beautiful woman." His glance, critical and admiring, ran over her face and form. "You would look better in silks. Well, you shall have them. You stood at the door of a convent; why did you not enter? You love the world too well; eh? … Like your mother."
Her eyes were steady.
"In my father's orchards there used to be a peach-tree. It had the whimsical habit of bearing one large peach each season. When it ripened I used to stand under it and gloat over it for hours, to fill my senses with its perfect beauty. At length I plucked it. I never regretted the waiting; the fruit tasted only the sweeter. … You are like that peach, Madame. By the Cross, over which these Jesuits mumble, but you are worth a dance with death!"
"Had you a mother, Monsieur?"
This unexpected question made him widen his eyes. "Truly, else I had not been here."
"Did she die in peace?"