“Bric-a-brac! Poor Elsa!” and Madame laughed. “If it were the countess I could aid you.”
“Love is not merchandise, to traffic with.”
Madame's cheeks grew warm. Sometimes the trick of fence is beaten down by a tyro's stroke.
“Eh, bien, since it is not the countess—”
He came toward her so swiftly that instinctively she rose and moved to the opposite side of her chair. Something in his face caused her to shiver. She had no time to analyze its meaning, but she knew that the shiver was not unmixed with fear.
“Madame, in God's name, do not play with me!” he cried.
“Monsieur, you forget yourself,” for the moment forgetting her part.
“Yes, there is no self in my thoughts since they are all of you! You know that I love you. Who could resist you? Thirteen years? They are well wasted, in the end to love a woman like you.”
Before she could withdraw her hands from the top of the chair he had seized them.
“Monsieur, release me.” She struggled futilely.