Madame had fully recovered her composure. She saw her way to the end.
“It is true,” she said, “that I do not love you, but it is also true that I am not indifferent to you. What proof have I that you really love me? None, save your declaration; and that is not sufficient for a woman such as I am. Shall I place my life in your hands for better or for worse, simply because you say you love me?”
“My love does not reason, Madame.”
She passed over this stroke. “I do not know you; it is not less than natural for me to doubt you. What proof have I that your declaration of love is not a scheme to while away your captivity at my expense? My heart is not one to be taken by storm. There is only one road to my affections; it is narrow. Other men have made love to me, but they have hesitated to enter upon this self-same road.”
“Love that demands conditions? I have asked none.”
Madame blushed. “A man offers love; a woman confers it.”
“And what is this narrow road called which leads to your affections? Is your heart a citadel?”
“It is called sacrifice. Those who dwell in my heart, which you call a citadel, enter by that road.”
“Sacrifice?” Fervor lighted his face again. “Do you wish my fortune? It is yours. My life? It is yours. Do you wish me to lead the army of the duchess into Bleiberg? It shall be done. Sacrifice? I have sacrificed the best years of youth for nothing; my life has been made up of sacrifices.”
“Monsieur, if I promised to listen to you here-after, if I promised a heart that has never known the love of man, if I promised lips that have never known the lips of any man save my father—” She moved away from the chair, within an arm's length of him. “If I promised all these without reservation, would you aid me to give back to the duchess her own?”