“I was told that story,” she said, “but did not believe it.”
De Vasselot turned and looked at her, but could not see her averted face. His eyes were suddenly fierce. He was a fighter—of a fighting stock—and he instantly perceived that he was called upon at this moment to fight for the happiness of his whole life. He put out his hand and deliberately took hold of the skirt of her dress. She should not run away at all events. He twisted the soft material round his half-disabled fingers.
“What story?” he asked quietly.
Denise's eyes flashed, and then suddenly grew gentle. She did not quite know whether she was furious or afraid.
“That there was some one in the Château de Vasselot to whom—whom you loved.”
“It is you that I love, mademoiselle,” he answered sharply, with a ring in his voice, which came as a surprise to both of them, and which she never forgot all her life. “No. Do not go. You are pulling on my injured arm and I shall not let go.”
Denise sat still, silent and at bay.
“Then who was in the château?” she asked at last.
“I cannot tell you.”
“If it is as you say—about me—and—I ask you not to go to Corsica?”