“Well, madame, our enemies, Thuillier’s and mine, are—a woman.”
“Supposing that is so,” said the countess; “do you know how many lines Richelieu required from a man’s hand in order to hang him?”
“Four,” replied la Peyrade.
“You can imagine, then, that a pamphlet of two hundred pages might afford a—slightly intriguing woman sufficient ground for persecution.”
“I see it all, madame, I understand it!” cried la Peyrade, with animation. “I believe that woman to be one of the elite of her sex, with as much mind and malice as Richelieu! Adorable magician! it is she who has set in motion the police and the gendarmes; but, more than that, it is she who withholds that cross the ministers were about to give.”
“If that be so,” said the countess, “why struggle against her?”
“Ah! I struggle no longer,” said la Peyrade. Then, with an assumed air of contrition, he added, “You must, indeed, hate me, madame.”
“Not quite as much as you may think,” replied the countess; “but, after all, suppose that I do hate you?”
“Ah! madame,” cried la Peyrade, ardently, “I should then be the happiest of unhappy men; for that hatred would seem to me sweeter and more precious than your indifference. But you do not hate me; why should you feel to me that most blessed feminine sentiment which Scribe has depicted with such delicacy and wit?”
Madame de Godollo did not answer immediately. She lowered her eyelids, and the deeper breathing of her bosom gave to her voice when she did speak a tremulous tone:—