He sprang towards her, and seized her roughly by the arm.
“How do I know they are false?” he said. “Prove to me they are false! Who saved the King’s life? You! And why? Because you knew he was ‘Pasquin Leroy’! How was it he gained such swift ascendancy over all our Committee, and led the work and swayed the men,—and made of me his tool and servant? Through you again! And why? Because you knew he was the King! Why have you scorned me—turned from me—thrust me from your side—denied my love,—though I have loved and cared for you from childhood! Why, I say? Because you love the King!”
She stood perfectly still,—unmoved by his frantic manner—by the glare of his bloodshot eyes, and his irrepressible agony of rage and jealousy. Quietly she glanced him up and down.
“You are right!” she said tranquilly; “I do love the King!”
A horrible oath broke from his lips, and for a moment his face grew crimson with the rising blood that threatened to choke the channels of his brain. An anxious pity softened her face.
“Sergius!” she said gently, “You are not yourself—you rave—you do not know what you say! What has maddened you? What have I done? You know my life is free—I have a right to do with it as I will, and even as my life is free, so is my love! I cannot love where I am bidden—I must love where Love itself calls!”
He stood still, staring at her. He seemed to have lost the power of speech.
“You have insulted me almost beyond pardon!” she went on. “Your accusations are all lies! I love the King,—but I am not the King’s mistress! I would no more be his mistress than I would be your wife!”
Slowly, slowly, his hand got at something in his pocket and clutched it almost unconsciously. Slowly, slowly, he raised that hand, still clutching that something,—and his lips parted in a breathless way, showing the wolfish glimmer of white teeth within.
“You—love—the King!” he said in deliberate accents. “And you dare—you dare to tell me so?”