Péron bowed gravely. “Mademoiselle,” he said quietly, “I never believed that the letter was yours, but I should have kept the appointment.”
“Mon Dieu!” she cried with sudden emotion, “you would have kept it to your death—and I should have been the means of it!”
She pressed her hands before her face, shaken by an emotion too deep to conceal. Péron watched her with a strange confusion of feeling, his heart beating high with sudden hope.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, too low for any ears but hers, “if my death would cause you regret, it would be robbed of much bitterness.”
She looked at him with startled eyes, a beautiful blush mounting to her fair hair, and then she drew back haughtily.
“I came here from a sense of duty, monsieur,” she murmured in a strange voice. “I could do no less—I know not what you think of me!”
“That you are an angel, mademoiselle,” he replied, “too noble and too just to let a man’s life be sacrificed by the use of your name.”
She gave him a questioning glance, as though she doubted the sincerity of his words and feared that he misunderstood her motives. Her pride was up in arms and she put on her mask, securing it with trembling fingers.
“There is no more to tell, monsieur,” she said coldly; “if you go to the Cours la Reine, you will meet your death—and I did not write that letter—that is all. Come, Ninon, we must away.”
Péron could not delay her, but he picked up his sword.